


In Our Final Days

by doodlebutt



Series: All the Pieces of Our Lives [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (it will definitely change tbh), (probably), Angst, Codependency, Hurt/Comfort, Improper Use of Ósanwe, M/M, Nightmares, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, You Have Been Warned, bad coping strategies, no-one is okay, this is gonna get darker in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlebutt/pseuds/doodlebutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last part of this series (no I don't write anything in order, shut up), but can stand alone like the others. Maedhros, Maglor, a generous helping of angst, and lots and lots of bad coping strategies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Our Final Days

**Author's Note:**

> So this is in a (slightly) different style from the other parts (and a different tense because I have no self-control). Also posting this chapter as an apology for my long update times on Noldor Falling (it's only going to get worse over the next few months I'm afraid) - so it may not get any more chapters for a while, and may also be edited once I reach this point in the writing of the whole series.
> 
> Alright, I'm done explaining myself - enjoy!

The salt spray has pulled Maedhros’ hair into loose curls which stick to his skin like loops of copper. Maglor watches him as he sleeps, unable to find rest himself after the days which are behind them. Days of blood and anger and awful, awful regret. Days of -

Maitimo stirs, and his brother is glad of the interruption to his thoughts. But he does not wake, and as Maglor sees pain spread across his features he wishes again for the silence and the memories. For this - this is not something he has ever done before. He thinks of Amras as Maitimo mumbles something which he does not catch, and his eyes sting though he has no tears left to shed.

“Fin- don't-  _ no… _ ”

The words trail away into a muffled groan and half of a sob, and Maglor is utterly at a loss.

“Maitimo -” He is cut off by a cry, quiet yet raw and brimming over with anguish; the words freeze in his throat and instinctively he reaches out to pull his brother into his arms.

Mistake.

Maedhros cries out again, and lashes out against whatever form his brother's arms have taken in his dream - Maglor barely escapes a blow to his face, and in the struggle a sob slips past his own lips which falls heavy between them. Silence and tense stillness follows - and then Maitimo  _ whimpers _ , and Makalaurë’s red-rimmed eyes fill once more with tears drawn up from unknown reserves.

“Nelyo…” Maglor's voice cracks and breaks, and he draws in a deep, shuddering breath as he attempts to steady himself once more. “Nelyo, please…”

Maitimo does not respond; save that his breathing grows more ragged, his remaining hand clenched in a white fist around the tangled sheets. The torn (yet still present) silence of the room weighs heavily on Makalaurë, the walls seeming to press in about them as the loneliness of their reality hits him once again. He bows his head, tears tracking down his cheeks as a sound of pain and fear slips from Maitimo's parted lips, and for a few moments he slips into the cold darkness which waits in the back of his mind - the darkness which will easily swallow him whole if he does not withdraw from it. And he does, again, as always, and reality is coarse and harsh against the skin of his mind.

***

Darkness overwhelms the nightmare -  _ darkness everlasting, it will be  _ \- and Maedhros reaches desperately for the surface, crying out against black Unlight and chains of dissolving agony. Brightness floods his senses as his eyes flicker open, and in the confusion of memory and dream all he sees is dark hair and tear-stained cheeks and he  _ reacts _ , instinctively, reaching out to the arms around him -

The exclamation of shock slices through the bright confusion as it spills from Makalaurë’s lips between two heartbeats. Maedhros blinks, focuses,  _ sees his younger brother _ -

Silence falls between them, and it is heavier than either have ever known.

Yet it lasts for mere moments; Maitimo feels strong arms pull him close and he clings to his brother, denying their reality and their actions both. He feels soft lips against his ear and shudders with the ghosts of memory, trying to focus on words rather than sensations, on logic rather than instinct, on anything at all except how  _ wrong-right  _ this feels - only the two of them are left, he realises once again as a muffled sob breaks free of his flimsy control, and it might just be more than he can bear.

They lie together, held tightly close for comfort - no, more than comfort, this is for sanity and for survival - eyes closed, each drowning in his own memories as red hair mixes with dark on the pillows beneath them. Imagined ghosts press close about them; those lost both to the Enemy and to their own misdeeds - they dare not open their eyes nor turn their faces from each other. Hands cling to shoulders, strong in appearance yet far too vulnerable in the actions of this moment, and to the outside eye they would be all but indistinguishable from one another in the dim light of their room.

Sleep will not come to them now; only the darkness of memory and rejected, denied foresight awaits them in their minds - and so they turn to sensation, focusing only on the feel of the other in their arms, the lift and fall of their shared, shaky breaths, the quiet sounds of sobs held back with limited success - and the hot dampness of the other's tears against their skin.

The night passes slowly, and they do not speak. Dawn breaks, and they gather themselves once again to face the day with cold eyes and colder minds. They have lost what they sought for the second time, and paid for the attempts in losses counted dearer than their frustration (but were they truly? their shadowed minds can no longer tell, can no longer measure life against the objects of their desperate quest - nothing is worth more, not even the pain of a brother's death, this they know to be true), yet still they will go on. To the bitter end, whatever that might be - their foresight shies away from it, and so they refuse to look.

Maglor plays his harp, as he does every morning, and Maedhros does not mention the hoarseness in his brother's voice as he flexes stiff fingers and sharpens the keen edge of his sword until the morning sunlight shatters on the blade.

The twins are asleep still, undisturbed by nightly terrors for a change, and the brothers do not seek to wake them. Every day with the children of their latest victims feels like a pretence of the most dreadful kind - Maedhros cannot understand how his brother can show them such kindness, how he can swallow his own turmoil of emotions for the sake of two half-Elven boys who still shrink from their touch as if it burns them. He cannot; it is one trial too many, and he leaves the fostering to the half-false repentance of Makalaurë.

Though what good it could come to in the end, Maedhros cannot see. They are clinging to the last edges of a land overtaken by darkness, and sooner or later it will come to claim them.

Either that, or they will walk willingly into it.


End file.
